


Nightblossom

by RelativelyFucked



Category: Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, One Shot, Shotacon, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21557962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RelativelyFucked/pseuds/RelativelyFucked
Summary: Milo takes Allister to a haunted house in Turffield
Relationships: Onion | Allister/Yarrow | Milo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 90





	Nightblossom

**Author's Note:**

> Underage Allister, heed warnings !  
> Written in-universe but not distractingly so.
> 
> FOR MY AIRIE !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Milo was a little startled when he learned about the haunted house on the outskirts of his hometown. Had it always been there? Milo didn't remember it, not from when he was growing up, and not when he would go on adventures through all the overgrown farms burying Turffield on the map - or if he did remember, it definitely wasn't haunted before.

Empty houses had a habit of picking up ghosts, huh?

It was a good thing Milo had a habit of picking up friends.

This particular friend wasn't such an easy one to obtain, though. Milo had come on too strong at first, nearly scared the kid half to death even if _death_ wasn't exactly a subject Allister shied away from. Half to life, then. Milo had accidentally brought him a little too close to the world of the living, where light shined and grass fields grew and people wanted to see smiles instead of spirit masks.

So he'd backed off. Gotten even more interested in him than he was before, enough to tap into his gym leader brain and plan a whole step-by-step strategy: Operation Allister. The kid was already wary of him so he had to go a new route in-between all the weeds — walk softer, talk quieter, reach out his hand like he was letting some street-puppy sniff at him until it finally decided, _good human._

Allister wasn't scared of him that time, and the hollow eyes of his mask didn't scare Milo either. Big puppy eyes; windows into the soul. Nothin' to be afraid of.

And Allister must've thought Milo was a _good human_ after all, because the kid had stopped cowering and just tilted his head. Allister's hands fumbled at the hem of his shorts, not knowing what came next because, well, he'd never gotten that far before. Puppy boy'd been begging for scraps but was too shy to come out of the shadows and take them. Friends? Did Milo mean his Pokemon? Yes, they're very good friends of his.

Milo shook his head and asked him how many people-friends he had.

Allister blinked, and then too slowly and too shakily held up one finger that drooped like a sapling in need of a little extra love. It was a question mark if Milo ever saw one.

"You mean me?" Milo was almost worried that putting him on the spot would scare him away again. But the kid just nodded, all shy and cute, and Milo was right back in his comfort zone. He had a golden opportunity to help a bud become a flower. All he had to do was be the sun for it.

So Milo was too giddy to hold back then, and he pulled Allister's finger straight up to answer his question with an exclamation point. It was as good as done. Operation success. Puppy boy had chosen his new human — and they still had the whole afternoon left to bond.

But back to the haunted house, because that was the whole reason Milo was thinking of Allister to begin with.

It turns out the kid's mother didn't mind Milo stealing her son for the day; in fact, she'd never been happier about _anything_ . "Allister has a friend? _Oh-_ oh my goodness! You're the pink-haired boy? The gym leader? The one from Turffield?"

And when she said it, Milo could practically hear Allister listing the descriptors off to his mother himself — in that very same order. Pink-haired came first. That was because it was Allister's _least_ favorite color, and he'd made sure to rattle off all the reasons why, about how purple beat pink. Ghost beat Psychic. Sorry Milo, that's just the way it is. But despite making sure Milo knew his _the-way-it-is_ logic, Allister went on to tell him that maybe it was okay, anyway. Because it was him.

"You're _different."_

So Milo was generously allowed to keep his pink hair — and thank god for that, because he's not so sure that he wouldn't have dyed it.

"That's me!" Milo said to the kid's mother. He had a voice you could trust, shining right through the phone with sincerity and a smile to boot. There was a moment of static on the other line with a muffled voice behind it, and then a line fed in Allister’s direction, "I don't know, you'll have to ask him!"

Allister held the phone now. Milo knew because there was a silence so long that he had to be the one to break first, or nothing would ever be said.

"I need your help, kid."

And Allister couldn't ever resist a good ghost story.

So now they're both standing here in the middle of that exact story — before the scares, after the set-up — in front of a haunted house that has no clue who it's up against. Allister and Milo, ghost hunters, friends. A shy question mark and an enthusiastic exclamation point back. A puppy boy and the good human who somehow managed to win him over and make him stay.

Milo peeks at the kid while the sun sets in the sky. He wonders what grand strategy he’d need to plan to get that mask off, next, or if it's a part of the Allister Package Deal and all the oddities that come with it. Milo's getting more used to them by the day. Allister is a mystery-box boy with flared sleeves and frilly socks and a secret club of ghost friends — all except one of them.

"You're gonna have to help me out here, kid," Milo tells him. "If it isn't a ghost plant, it's all you."

The comment has Allister's shoulders shaking in response. It takes Milo a second to realize it's because of this breathy little giggle he can barely hear, but by that time the moment had passed, and he’d lost his chance to memorize it. Ah, next time, then. Milo will make him laugh. Another joke about something Allister knows, like spooky Pokemon or the color purple, or how Milo spends his evenings talking to plants instead of things that go bump in the night.

The sun just barely disappears over the treeline, then, and Allister finds his home while Milo loses it. Darkness rolls over the meadows. Still, Milo is the adult here. He takes one protective step closer to the kid and asks, "Should we go inside with one of our Pokes with us?" because _Allister_ is the expert where ghosts are concerned. Milo lets the kid feel important. He should be the one taking notes on Allister's _the-way-it-is_ logic again, because it’s never failed to be entertaining: 

The sun is bright and scares friends away. Masks make you feel safer. Pink hair is fine, but only if your name's Milo. 

Allister teaches him how the world looks through purple eyes and mask holes.

And then Milo feels something he doesn't expect. A touch. A small touch, Allister curling his hand in the loose bottom of Milo's shirt like he needs to be certain they're still together. The kid fell hard, just like all puppies do. At his heels, eyes wide, asking for treats even when Milo's hand is showing him an empty palm. 

Without anything to give him back, Milo just ruffles his hair and tries not to act surprised at how smooth it is.

Because why wouldn't it be? Allister is just the average normal-abnormal kid. Short and yet to grow into his puppy paws, silky hair that couldn't split if it tried to, and soft skin that Milo hasn't had the chance to pet just yet — so maybe _soft_ is just an educated guess, but it's a good one. He has his reasons.

Allister shakes his head suddenly and answers the question Milo forgot he'd even asked.

Huh, all by themselves then. Operation Haunted House. It starts when Milo nudges open the creaky door, with Allister still clutching the fabric of his shirt, and even though right now the kid is anything but scared. It's like a comfort-touch. Allister is still dutifully following the very _human_ reflex to seek out warmth, enough that Milo knows he isn't a ghost boy at heart just yet. 

Milo hums, "You okay?"

Allister answers by tugging them inside, follow-the-leader, it’s time to make a new friend, now.

Is this what he looks like when he’s _excited?_ Allister's head peeps around the new environment like an owl, turning his neck the way he almost has to with that mask on, so he doesn't lose anything in the edges around his eyes. God it's cute. Allister perks up and suddenly this old, dusty house is nothing but a playground. 

Milo laments when the kid finally lets go of his shirt, but it almost makes up for it when he gets to watch him explore, instead. Allister must be following his own strategies. Operation New Friend. He's looking for the antagonist of their story in whatever sunken places ghosts must like to hide — behind curtains, under tables, in a cookie jar that Allister turns upside-down and shakes. Who knew?

And every time the kid pauses to think, he rests the button of his forefinger against his mask, or what should be his chin. There's this _"Hm,"_ that's the same pitch and length every time like Allister has a lot of practice just wondering. Wondering about anything. He's curious about shadows, and what things cast them, and what shapes he can draw into the dust on the kitchen table. Which turn out to be: a crescent moon and frowny face. 

But just at first, until Allister looks up and realizes he'd forgotten he wasn't alone. 

A smiley face, then, and another one next to it with a sun right above them both, because why not? It's a net positive. One smile that Allister gets to keep guilt-free. Then he's right back to owl eyes.

Huh, the kid's really into this. Their ghost hunt has found a clear leader here, and he's so _passionate,_ too. Milo sees those Allister-petals start to unfurl, even in this place where there's no sun and no rain and dead things must be hiding around every corner. 

It's Milo's worst nightmare, really, but nightmares are still just dreams. And who says what makes them good or bad, anyway? The dark should be bad but here's Allister: blooming in it anyway. 

And pink should be a _bad_ color, but Allister decided that with Milo, it’s good.

"Allister." Milo's voice is the first scare of their story, because it comes out of nowhere and the kid jumps in his skin. He holds back a laugh at the reaction, "Sorry! Just — tell me if you find anything, alright?"

Allister nods. And this time he actually replies back, too. "It's a tricky ghost."

The words don't mean a thing to him. Milo gets too caught up in Allister's tone to make sense of them, because it’s something he doesn't get to hear too often. It floats at this decibel that Milo swears only exists when he listens for it, so he's always happy to catch it in the act, even by accident. He loves that he can. That Allister lets him.

"A tricky one?" Milo finally wonders, still keeping the kid's voice warm on his hotplate of a heart.

"Mhmm," Allister agrees, "It doesn't like being looked at it, so it hides until people sleep." 

Doesn't like being looked at, huh, sounds a lot like a certain someone Milo knows.

But Milo just has to sigh now, because that's it for Operation Haunted House, then. It never even lifted off the ground before a tricky ghost screwed them sideways. There's not a chance it'll work with that new development. 

And while he's absolutely _certain_ that Allister would curl right up on the sheet-cover of an old couch for a nap — make himself sweet-dream appetizing for this ghost — Milo isn't so willing to play that game too.

Besides, this wasn't a total loss. He didn't find the ghost but he found this new side of Allister, one the kid probably doesn't let many people see. Maybe only his friends get a peek — the ones that he can tuck neatly around his waist, or the singular person Allister keeps gravitating toward in the off-beats of their adventure, needing that fix of real warmth again. Milo's brand of comfort. Puppy boy keeps close to his side with nothing in the house left to fetch.

"We can try some other time," Milo tells him, which is the best he can do. The kid's mother might not be so inviting next time if Milo brings her son home tonight past eight o'clock, no matter what they'd been doing.

But then something happens that takes him completely off guard and sends his heart on a solo flight to the stratosphere — Allister _whines._ This sad, solemn noise that nearly withers him on the spot. Milo feels something strange start to bloom in his chest, so _strange_ and bizarre and dark, just like the kid who did it to him.

His ears are ringing bells. Weak, he's so _weak_ for this cute kid _,_ he'd do whatever it took to keep Allister from making that awful noise again. Milo wants to make it up to him with promises he knows he can't keep: we'll stay here all night. We'll keep on hunting ghosts. I'll be that earthly warmth for you, I can do that.

Milo doesn't ever get the chance to make it better.

Those puppy eyes under Allister's mask are suddenly looking behind Milo instead of at him, and there's a chill on his shoulder, a snicker from something beyond. Something _tricky._ Before he can even blink, Allister is crumpling to the floor, and Milo's surging forward to catch his arm and drag him back up from the depths.

He's limp. But Milo knows what he saw when it happened, how the air wiggled like heat waves right before Allister went ragdoll on him. It was the spell of something that didn't want to be seen. A ghost didn't expect Allister to be so good at finding it.

So Allister is in his arms now — bridal-style — sleeping like a baby. Milo's kicking himself harder than anything. He was too short-sighted and didn't take this seriously enough to bring any medicine with him. And sure, he could go out and find some wildberries on the fence of the forest that'll do the trick, but he doesn't want to leave Allister here. Or god forbid — carry him outside looking like _this._

Milo peeks behind him and confirms what he already knows, that the ghost is gone. Whatever it was. It doesn't matter now, Milo's mind is firing pistons and cranking gears and the final product churning out from all that inner machinery is: _protect Allister._ The kid that chose his human so carefully and now sleeps soundly his arms.

This would be peaceful if it wasn't the result of some plan-gone-awry. It's Milo's responsibility to take care of this now, make it all better. Put a band-aid on Allister and give it a nice, big kiss. He can do that. 

When he looks down, his heart blooms with a kind of fondness he hasn't earned yet, and he knows all at once that it's become something more. Something possessive, even. It grows like a frenzy and it's all he can do to trim it back — it's like there's ivy curling around his ribs and jailing them like latticework.

And then there's Allister, fitting closely against Milo's chest with a hand hanging down in the empty air. Cute kid, even like this. Cute in a way he still can't wrap his mind around. 

Milo slowly walks over to that sheet-wrapped couch he saw earlier and sits down on it, the both of them. He brushes a long hair from Allister's mask next, so he'll be able to see when those eyes shoot open again. How long do sleep-spells last, huh? A couple minutes? A couple hours?

_Protect Allister._

Milo squeezes him close even though the kid's all bones and there's nothing to hold, he's knobby-kneed and swimming around in his clothes now that gravity can't help him with it. It's like nothing to carry him, almost feels like he's weightless. Maybe Allister really is half-ghost and Milo had been drawn to a spirit this whole time without any clue. Ghost boy. Puppy boy. Both pet names swirl together into more patchwork for Allister to wear.

"Allister?" 

It's worth a try but there's no response. Protect, _protect._ Maybe his ghost-puppy just needs the comfort he'd kept seeking out before. With Milo; only Milo. So he pulls at the kid's fingers, pokes his side, taps his mask with a nail — but he's all hollow inside. Allister is made of nothing but sweet dreams now.

_"Allister."_

Milo tries again. His voice starts to sound different, but he doesn't think too hard about the change; why should he? It's not the thing to worry about, here. It's fine. The comfort Milo gives turns into warmth, but warmth is a slippery slope to that shooting-star feeling again — from when Allister whined and took Milo with it.

Milo sighs. The ivy squeezes tighter on his exhale, but it still doesn't have a single thorn.

"Hey, kid." 

He's barely even audible now. What in the world is he whispering for?

_"Allister..."_

And then Milo's voice trails off somewhere in the great unknown. 

Holding Allister is something he could do until the sun comes up, but he can't quite admire him properly like this, the way Allister deserves to be — so Milo places him gently on the couch to see how he stands out against the sheets. Tiny thing, laying there boneless. All Milo can think of are the rules Allister eagerly taught him when they first met: purple beats pink, dark beats light. 

It's so clear to Milo now, as Allister lays against the thin, white sheet and it highlights all his darklights. Kid’s glowing like the moon is right here in this room, shining from the ceiling and reflecting the purple in his outfit, sinking into his dark locks. Allister’s rules again. It's just _the-way-it-is._

Allister's hair fans out on the sheets in a halo-shape. Almost like an angel. Puppy boy, Angel boy, it's just one more piece of the patchwork. 

Waking him up sounds like something Milo _shouldn't_ be trying to do, anymore. It's a little like sleepwalking, right? Better to let them walk around and fumble with their eyes closed, keeping a careful watch, stopping them from hurting themselves if need be — but that's it. That's as far as you go because it's bad to wake them up. At least that's what Milo's heard. Maybe, maybe not. Who knows. Milo's busy staring at the kid, breathing like he's suffering for it.

Does he even _need_ a strategy to get the kid out of that mask? He could do it right now, just lift it up for a peek — one second lost — and put it right back down again. Quick and easy how Milo likes.

Allister wouldn't ever find out, and Milo could put on a fake expression when it's finally revealed in its own time — no matter how twisty that makes Milo’s rib-cage-ivy become. Knowing Allister is all about the balance of curiosity with kindness, but it's getting harder and harder to keep himself in check. The scale is tipping.

The kid's still swimming in those clothes, too.

Milo thinks better of it for now, and instead allows a _small_ taste of indulgence. A simple touch, that's all. A pet for his puppy, his ghost, his angel boy. Milo wraps a hand around Allister's ankle, and there's nothing frailer than feeling that knobby bone, or the way his fingers go all the way around it to meet his thumb again.

"Hmm," Milo breathes. It's the same sort of wondering-word that Allister said before. But all Milo's wondering is what the inch above his ankle feels like — and then the inch above that, and the inch above that, until he's up to the kid's knees and still managing to wrap his whole hand around him. Allister is _too_ small, even. He'd fade away if Milo let him. It's a good thing he won't.

The lines of reality start to blur and now he's not so sure this isn't a dream, that Milo isn't actually sleeping right there next to Allister. Maybe the ghost got him too.

It's a _good_ dream, then, with a good kid. Let him ride out his nap. Protect him. Pet the puppy boy; touch him all you want. He's yours, Milo, he chose you as just as much as you chose him.

And it turns out Milo's educated guess was right after all. Kid's got soft skin; soft like petals, rosy on his knees. It's rosier on the in-curve of his slender thighs, before the hoops of his shorts hide the rest, but Milo can't have _that,_ now. Allister spends too much time hiding. 

Milo smooths his hand under the dark of the cloth, where Allister somehow turns even softer. It draws Milo in like he’s chasing sunlight instead of shadows. The kid twitches for the first time since going down, moving his legs open a bit, and Milo hums at how Allister can even bloom while he's sleeping.

He really is a good kid. Maybe Milo should rethink the whole mask thing, because he'd hate to expose him like that. 

_Petting_ follows a different set of guidelines though, and exposing him is okay when it means pushing Allister's shorts up and finding where his thighs crease along his hips. Milo's fingers hook into the negative space. Too bony, though, gotta make him plump with sweets and treats. Spoil him absolutely rotten. Puppy's been starving.

The dream blurs again and keeps Milo guessing what's real, and what's just written behind his eyes. Allister shifts once more and Milo takes the cue to move somewhere else. He starts sweating in the cool of the old house, with his hands all over the kid he adores. This isn't a ghost story anymore. It's a book about Allister and every page is blank until it gets to the part where Milo starts exploring him.

That shirt comes up next — not _off,_ just lifted enough that Milo doesn't have to fight it. Allister's stomach gets a palm splayed right where it starts to dip in, where Milo opens his hand like a flower, and then drags his fingers down to find the roots. Just a quick peek under Allister’s waistband, a swirl of his fingertips. Still no hair at all. Soft, so _soft._ Go on and keep petting this cute kid of yours, Milo. He's begging for some warmth. He’s dreaming of it.

Milo finds his hip bones next and presses his thumbs in, then fits both hands against Allister's sides and runs them all the way up his ribs. Feels them each one by one on the journey, bump bump bump, and Allister's aren't wrapped in ivy like Milo's are. It isn't hard for the kid to breath.

But Milo still stutters because it's getting harder for _him._ A dream shouldn't be getting this kind of kickback, this heat, but he does good enough trying to ignore it until it's nothing but an itch on his neck. One scratch and it’s gone. No worries. There isn't a thing that could keep him from his ghost boy.

But the sight of Allister’s mask still gives him butterflies.

That spirit-mask of his.

It really wouldn’t hurt to take that peek, while the kid’s all laid-out for him.

The heat in Milo’s guts reaches a fever pitch. His mind opens up wider than ever before, and there's motion-blur even when he doesn't remember starting to spin. How long do dreams last? Is it different when you're spellbound? Should Milo be saying his goodbyes, or is there still time to take one last bite out of his little Allister?

The kid's skin is nice and pink now, from the cold, from Milo rubbing the cold out of him. Allister would be absolutely _solemn_ about it. Milo's breaking the laws of nature here; pink isn't supposed to be pretty on Allister, just on _him._

But he'll make it all better with another band-aid apology. Milo says sorry into the air and doesn't wonder about seeing his own breath like it's winter inside. 

He says sorry into Allister's slim calf, next, when he leans down to kiss it and keeps drawing his lips up. Those inches from before he takes right back. Sorry for making you pink, kid. Milo's sorrys drip down and water his flesh and bone. 

And Allister's thighs are even softer against Milo's lips than against his fingers — especially on the inside. Maybe Milo doesn't need them any plumper, after all. If Allister gets chilly he doesn't have to put meat on his bones, just needs to seek out Milo, _Milo,_ his good human, and he'll keep the kid warm either tucked-in close or melting in his arms. Lazy puppy cuddles.

There's a soft, _"Mmm,"_ from Milo's throat that rolls against Allister’s thigh. It isn't a wondering-noise this time, it's anticipatory. Something about his nose being pressed inbetween Allister’s scrawny little legs makes him rethink the whole mask thing. A long breath in, then another, it doesn’t matter how tight the ivy pulls. Allister smells like a scent that only exists around him. He’s spirit-sweet.

So smitten he can hardly stand it, Milo makes the decision to peek. Not to pull up Allister's mask completely, but lift it just enough to know what his smile looks like. Just one smile, the net positive he’d been keeping this whole time after he’d drawn it in the dust.

Milo takes one last huff of Allister's bare thighs and whatever fleeting, wet scent soaked his tongue along with it, and moves step-by-step up to his masked face. The trip leads Milo past his ribs again, one more time to knock against them. One more wish granted to trace his skin pink.

Milo kisses the nose of his mask before lifting it up. It’s something to bring him good luck, maybe, or _bad_ luck. A little curse from his shy, puppy boy for messing with the one hiding place he’d kept secret all this time. But Milo doesn't mind the small chance of affliction.

His thumbs flutter at the bottom edge of Allister's mask. Their shared dream gets darker, and heavier, like it knows exactly what forces Milo's trying to mess with. But Milo has always been too carefree about things, It's like it’s written in his bones to be. He can't help it; a creepy kid becomes the potential for something nice to bloom, a haunted house becomes a play date, and even when a ghost crawls up out of the floorboards, the universe will work itself out. It always does.

So the mask lifts. Milo holds his breath, not that he has any control over it in the first place.

He has to consciously stop pushing up when it's right below the kid's nose, and the amount of willpower Milo uses to resist taking more — seeing if that nose is a button — is _staggering._

Milo's breath pours back out again, and he gets the moonlight view he was looking to see. 

Allister isn't smiling but that doesn't seem to matter now. His mouth is pert and small, crooked in the corners. Even when he sleeps he’s one mystery within another. Milo just keeps eating them up because he's borderline infatuated with trying to figure him out; this odd kid dressed in patchwork who goes by Puppy, or Ghost, or Angel boy, or maybe all three when Milo's feeling like spoiling him. 

_Allister._ Allister with a little mole below his lip.

Milo has to touch it. He _has_ to, the universe will understand. It's not something he has control over, he's never wanted to touch something so badly, even when his hands were feathering across the kid's ribs right by his puffy nipples. Touching then would've been too much, that's not the kind of dream he agreed to have:

Keep Allister safe. Touch your ghost boy and find out how nice he feels. Protect, _protect,_ love him softly. 

_Protect Allister_ — except Milo couldn't have protected him if he didn't know what there was to keep safe. But now he knows what's at stake here, every inch of it. Pink skin, velvet where it counts, skinny enough that Allister's curves are all three-dimensional instead of on the outer lines. They’re the concave shadows in his legs and stomach that Milo can press his fingers in and explore. _That's_ what he's protecting.

This mole, too. It’s already protected by Allister’s mask like the world just isn't ready for it yet. Milo barely is. It's a dot — but it’s a black dot that makes Milo's cheeks go red, and leads the ivy through his ribs again, crushing in while his heart beats out. _Boom,_ watch the thorns, now, _boom_ , Allister is worth a drop of blood or two.

Milo smiles, brushing his fingertip across Allister’s chin. If he closed his eyes he could still find that mole, it's raised just enough to press down and feel the difference. Cutest kid he's ever seen. Ghost boy with a mark that's the perfect addition to his own mystery box of oddities.

Milo pokes it again while Allister stirs. The dream must be fading, the spell is wearing off with every heartbeat now. But Milo’s hands don't listen to the common sense of a stop sign, and before he knows it he's tracing Allister's bottom lip, cherishing the sight of it tucked behind the very tip of his finger. Small mouth, small everywhere.

The details of the living room start to come back into focus. The good-dream bad-dream rustles like it's trying to shake Milo and Allister out of it. Not yet. Not before one last bite.

Milo leans in close and kisses the pretty mole on Allister's chin, and then tugs the mask back down before he can convince himself otherwise. He’s still buzzing with it in the afterglow. The minutes where he realizes that the rest of Allister needs tidied up too, so Milo unfurls the kid's shirt and rolls down his shorts, still riding the unfathomable high of getting behind that mask for a taste.

Then his voice comes back to him, easy, like nothing was ever wrong. "Allister."

It takes a minute or two for the kid to finally wake up. That's okay, who knows what a spell does to a person. It's just that much more time spent calling his puppy's name and waiting for him to sit up again, or beg, or tilt his head behind his spirit-mask and look at the one who protected him.

Milo's staring right into those big, owlish eyes before long — and it’s only then that he realizes he never did discover the kid's smile.

But it isn't like it’s lost, it's just waiting for the right time to bloom. Another night. Another night under the moon while Allister turns dark and purple in the negative light while his mask has the chance to glow again, and all Milo will be able to think about is the mole sitting pretty underneath it.

And another night isn’t too far away.

They still have a ghost story to finish.


End file.
